The False Mirror
The pupil dilates dead center
Black like a Gaeta olive
A contrast amidst a sphere of daze.
The retina opens, revealing its π
Of inner parts where behind the black mass
Lies a model blue sky—a color only found in dreams.
Where white clouds of stratus and cumulous subsume and
Overlap, their only hope is to hang in the balance—
Attempt to interface with the ink black spot—attempt to
Superimpose, to keep face.
Beige eyelids the color of sanded wooden tables
Curve wide and fold like lips of wet supple clay
Around an elliptical edge. They meet
At an ideal point like a fishhook at a glossy tear duct.
As you enter the eye, its walls curve inward like the terminal before a plane.
It’s opening up the view
For false conceptions, false impressions and false glimpses
Where the eye is not a dual lens spyglass
Or a two-way street.
Black pupils dominate, dream clouds traverse
And all this leads to poor eyesight and a ghostly